Moonrise
by Shadolfos
Summary: Three dying elven nations, two exiled rangers, and the goddess who chose them all. Book One of the Elune's Children saga.
1. Prologue

_The elves, my poor, beloved elves, are dying._

_I watched it begin, so many centuries ago, when they first came to the shores of the Well and began to drink of its power. I stood by them when they unleashed the cataclysm that broke the world, and during their long climb to recovery, to a state of balance. I saw those who split from their kind and fled across the sea, watched them through the founding of their kingdom, their wars and their peace…and ultimately, their betrayals. _

_They have suffered greatly, each nation of the elves. And for all this time, I have never, for even a moment, abandoned them. Not even those who have turned away from me._

_It has always been my way to bestow my gifts only where they are asked, to guide rather than to lead, and to let my children find their own path, no matter how I knew their mistakes would hurt them. I can never assume control over their lives, for that would strip them of everything that gives them pride, gives them value. I am their teacher, their guardian, not their queen._

_But now… The world is changing too fast for my elves to adapt, and I must change with it, or lose them._

_The kaldorei, the children of the stars, have been beaten horribly in these last years. Even in their victory, they are too reduced in numbers and power to protect their own forests, their leadership divided and their souls corrupted by their ill-conceived World Tree. The quel'dorei, the High Elves, I have long watched though they have all but forgotten me. Today they are a people on the brink of extinction, the surviving handful of them scattered to the winds, sustained only by the belief in who they were. I fear that nothing can rescue them now… And the poor, suffering sin'dorei, the Blood Elves, who have allowed themselves to be defined by the betrayals they endured. They seek power as the answer to their pain, clinging to survival, forgetting that to live is so much more than to exist. They run headlong to their own destruction. And for all their crimes, I love them not one whit less._

_I must not cease to let the elves choose their own path, but it is no longer enough to light a better path for them. I must blaze that trail myself, and send them guides to lead them on it. With all my being, I hope that it is not too late…that the age of the elves shall not now end._


	2. Winding Paths

**The Living Wood, northeastern Quel'Thalas**

**Six years ago**

"AAARGH!"

Rabbits scattered and birds sprang for the safety of the air at the yell that echoed through the forest; this was one of the few regions of the kingdom that had not fallen under the undead Scourge, but not an animal was left but had learned to flee from anything unknown. Two heads with narrow, delicate features and long, pointed ears appeared from around separate trees, frowning in the direction from which the shout had come.

"Paelarin," the taller elf said, slipping fully out from behind the tree. The other nodded, doing likewise. Both women were dressed in gray-green shirts and trousers, overlaid with supple, dark-patterned leather armor. The combination of colors made them nearly invisible in the dense underbrush.

"He sounded angry, not frightened," the second elf replied. Her hair was a blond two shades lighter than her companion's, her features a little softer and the green glow of her eyes not as pronounced.

"He has better sense than to yell at anything that might frighten him. Still, we'd better…"

"Aye, Lieutenant." And they were both off at a run.

The two rangers darted ghostlike through the woods, passing unscathed through thickets and tangles of underbrush that seemed as if their leafy claws should snare anything larger than a squirrel. In fact, nothing larger than that seemed to live here, aside from the elves. The massive, twisting trees with their alabaster bark and golden foliage created a deceptively open and airy atmosphere, but in truth the dense bushes and vines below left little space in this forest for deer or bears to navigate. The elves ran soundlessly, slipping around trunks and through the underbrush without lessening stride, and within minutes emerged into a clearing overlooking a small pond, fed by a stream.

There, they both stopped and stared, bemused.

Their comrade, a male elf with lank wheat-colored hair and dressed exactly as they were, stood near the center of the clearing, one booted foot in the stream, scowling thunderously and clutching one bloody hand in the other. It was not at him that the two women gazed, though, but at the apparition on the other side of the stream. A filthy elvish girl who couldn't have been more than thirteen years old had planted herself on the mossy ground, standing down the irate ranger. She carried a crude spear, made of a stripped sapling with a jagged shell for a head, evidently bound together with locks of her own dirty reddish hair, pointed directly at Paelarin, who had now stepped back and, flexing his blooded hand, moved the other to the hilt of the long knife at his belt. The girl was dressed in the ragged remnants of clothes that had originally been far too large for her, grubby feet bare and the bedraggled tunic bound to her chest with some sort of harness fashioned from dried vines. At her feet crouched a very young springpaw lynx, a species of cat native to Eversong Wood with brilliant red fur, unusually long ears and eyes of luminous gold. This specimen was yet a kitten, his paws far too big for his body, and the tawny mane not yet grown in. Both girl and cat stood in matching half-crouches, snarling at Paelarin.

"Are you having trouble?" the Lieutenant asked sweetly. The other woman, who had drawn her bow but not nocked an arrow, snickered. Paelarin turned his head to scowl at them.

"Oh, you're both very amusing. Zalene, stifle yourself and put an arrow in this little Wretched before she stabs me again!"

"Zalene, do nothing of the kind," interjected the Lieutenant—unnecessarily, as Zalene Firstlight hadn't even reached for her quiver. "And you, Paelarin, should know better than to let your temper get the better of you. That child isn't a Wretched, as anyone could plainly see. And she's certainly not Scourge. I won't have my rangers shooting lost children just because they were careless enough to be ambushed by one."

"Well if she's not Wretched, how do you explain…_this_?" Paelarin demanded in disgust, gesturing with his injured hand at the girl, who snarled more fiercely and hefted her spear at him. His superior officer shook her head, stepping into the stream beside him.

"And you call yourself a ranger. Can't you recognize a feral animal when you see one?" She turned a smile on the girl, who pointed the spear at her in response. In a far milder tone, she addressed the child. "I'm sorry about Paelarin. He has a temper, but I'm sure he didn't intend to harm you."

"He tried to take Sharidan!" the child spat, her voice shrill and furious as an angry lynx's.

The ranger was momentarily confused, but the lynx kitten chose that moment to lean against the girl's leg, and she nodded in comprehension. "Ah. I'm sorry about that. We didn't expect any of these cats to belong to someone out here." Still smiling, she extended a hand, heedless of the spearpoint. "I'm Lieutenant Dawnrunner, of the Farstriders. My band of are gathering as many of the springpaw lynxes as we can find, and moving them to Sunstrider Isle, to the northwest." She nodded her head in that direction, and the girl's eyes shifted along for a moment. Gradually, she seemed to be unwinding, letting the spearpoint lower, but still did not reach to take Dawnrunner's proffered hand. "That area is secure from the Scourge. We've taken back nearly half of Silvermoon City itself, and the Farstriders are extending our holds outward. Within a year, we expect to have all of Eversong safely back in elvish hands, and then press on south of the Elrendar River. Till then, though, it's important to protect creatures that can't protect themselves. That's why we're trying to save the lynxes. They've been companions to our people for a very long time."

The girl finally let the spear drop, eyeing Lieutenant Dawnrunner warily. She now ignored Paelarin, who muttered "_Kim'jael_" under his breath and set about wrapping his stabbed hand in a strip of linen bandage taken from an inner pocket. The deceptively close-fitting garb of the rangers contained supplies for virtually every need.

"How are you doing that?" the child asked suddenly. "There aren't enough elves left to do that. The humans killed off the ones who survived the Scourge."

At that, Paelarin ceased his bandaging and exchanged a startled glance with Zalene, who had stepped into the stream beside them. The Lieutenant raised one long eyebrow.

"Really? Is that what you thought? I assure you, the humans have done us little harm. We don't have any contact with their kind anymore."

"I was there," the girl insisted, her voice rising again in anger. "With Prince Kael'Thas and the other survivors. The humans started rounding everyone up into cells, so I ran. I saw them do it!"

Now the three rangers were all regarding the child thoughtfully.

"That was well over a year ago," Zalene said after a long moment. "A particularly stupid Alliance commander did try to have the Prince's force executed, but they escaped. You were actually with the refugees who accompanied the Prince? How did you come to be here?"

The girl only glared. With a sigh, Dawnrunner decided to change tactics. "What's your name?"

For a moment, it seemed she was going to deny them even that. But abruptly, the girl drew herself to her full, small height and declared, "I'm Shandara Ashan'dor. My father was a Knight of the Silver Hand."

The two junior rangers both raised eyebrows at this, but the Lieutenant only smiled. "Well, Shandara, it is a pleasure to meet you. Would you and Sharidan like something to eat?"

* * *

Whatever Shandara had been eating, she clearly had not seen cooked food in some time. The girl was thin, Dawnrunner noted, watching critically as she shoveled hot stew into her mouth with her fingers, but not starving. That only deepened the mystery about her, but the Lieutenant was content to wait, for the moment. Zalene had taken the girl under her wing, talking to her quietly throughout the walk back to the rangers' camp. Paelarin, aside from occasional mutters of "little rat" and the like, had decided to ignore her. Now, Shandara and Sharidan each had a bowl of thick Zalene's thick stew, made from local game and herbs (Zalene was a gifted cook, and ended up preparing most of their meals).

The band's camp was in a ruined lodge that had once served as a Farstrider retreat, situated in a hollow overlooking a branch of the river. In the distance they could just hear the sound of a waterfall, and just out of sight to the north were the walls of Silvermoon itself—what remained of them. Best of all, this site fell at a crossroads between the northern reaches of the kingdom now back in the Blood elves' hands, and the eastern wilds where the Scourge had never taken a foothold. During the weeks they had been set up here, no undead had attempted to approach the retreat. Nonetheless, the rangers did not relax their guard. Quel'Thalas was not a safe country. Not yet.

"Would you like a spoon?" Zalene prompted gently, proffering a wooden utensil to the child. Shandara paused in mid-chew, staring blankly at her, one cupped hand full of the next mouthful still halfway to her face. The Lieutenant noted that her eyes were a deep blue; she had never used the fel crystals, and in fact had not had much contact with magic at all, or the natural blue of her eyes would have been obscured by the cerulean glow of mana use. "Never mind," Zalene sighed, and the girl resumed shoveling. Paelarin snorted.

The entire band had convened around the fire pit in the center of the main structure, having long since cleared out the wrecked furniture, rugs and hangings. They would in truth have been more comfortable placing their bedrolls on the forest floor than on the stonework of the ruins, but with unspoken unanimity the rangers preferred to hold this scrap of their people's past, and endure the discomfort. In addition to Dawnrunner, Zalene and Paelarin, they were rejoined by their fourth member, Arathel Sunforge, and the band's apprentice, Areyn, who had been gazing speculatively at the bedraggled new arrival since she had been brought in. Also with them was Magister Duskwither, a friend of the band, and one of the few Silvermoon magisters who had always looked well upon the Farstriders. He was as intrigued by Shandara as the rest of them, which was hardly surprising; Duskwither's rather infamous intellectual curiosity was what had driven him into the wilds with the rangers in the first place, to the mild horror of his fellow bluebloods.

Lieutenant Dawnrunner had the errant thought that Shandara's arrival, in bumping up their number to seven, made the place seem less an echoing ruin and more a home, as if their presence suddenly stirred its own memory of the elves. She shook her head, as though that would clear it of fanciful nonsense. The young one had finally slowed down eating, setting down her third bowl and this time not asking if there was any more.

"Have you really been out here all alone?" she asked nonchalantly.

"I'm not alone." The answer was swift. "Sharidan and I live together."

"Yes, of course. I meant, you haven't seen any other elves around? It seemed, from what you said, as if you didn't realize there were any more elves in Quel'Thalas."

"I didn't." Shandara nudged away her empty bowl with one foot, looking earnestly up at the Lieutenant. Sharidan was not finished with his. "I haven't been exploring, though, so I don't know what's what. When we found a nice campsite in a part of the woods where the Scourge didn't seem to go, we settled in. I've seen enough Scourge." She looked away, and suddenly there was an aching hollowness in her eyes that made Dawnrunner close her own. She had seen that expression often enough…she had worn it often enough. They had all seen more than plenty of the damned Scourge.

"Well," she went on softly, "you'll be glad to know that the elves are moving back in. It's a struggle; the Scourge doesn't like to give up what it holds. But this is _our_ land, not theirs, and we mean to keep it." Shandara nodded sharply, a resolute expression settling over her face, and the Lieutenant found herself liking the girl a bit more. It was something indeed to find a patriot in such a bedraggled castaway. "Most of the survivors of our race were from the refugee caravans led by the Prince. It's been a long road back home, but the majority of those made it. You might well recognize some of them, if you were with the refugees. Do you have any family among them?" Shandara shook her head, her eyes instantly heavy with emptiness, and Dawnrunner immediately pressed on, not wanting to drag the girl through old pain. "I see. Well, that's what has us curious, my young friend. If you didn't come with the other refugees, how did you end up here?"

"I walked," the girl said simply, laying a hand on the cat's neck. Around her, the six Blood elves stared in flat disbelief.

"You _walked_?" Arathel scoffed. "Child, when the Prince's people were interred by the humans, they were all the way down in Silverpine Forest. You would have had to walk all across Lordaeron, which is _entirely _under the Scourge. They call it the Plaguelands now, and for good reason."

"Yeah, that's a good name," Shandara replied easily. "I didn't like the place at all. Took a long time to get through, being safe, and there wasn't much to eat."

"Lies!" Paelarin exploded. "Of all the asinine… _Nobody_ could hike through the Plaguelands alone, especially not some _girl._ Someone sent her here with this pack of _hey!"_ He hopped back as Shandara, with a feral snarl, snatched up her makeshift spear and lunged at him. Dawnrunner caught the girl by the scruff of her ragged tunic while Arathel deftly twisted the weapon away from her.

"I'm _not _a liar!" the girl screeched, twisting in Dawnrunner's grip. "My father was a paladin! I've more honor than _you _ever will, trollnose!"

Areyn let loose a squeal of laughter before a black look from Paelarin silenced her.

"Enough." Not to her surprise, the Lieutenant's cold tone stilled the struggling child; it had that effect on apprentices, too. "We will find a way to settle this without stabbing one another. Do you hear me? Whatever else goes on between us, do _not_ raise up a weapon against your fellow elf. There are too few of us left." She held the girl's gaze for a long moment, until she received a shame-faced nod in return. "Now, as for your story…"

"I'm inclined to believe her," Duskwither interjected. He rose from his seat by the fire, ignoring a wordless bark of derision from Paelarin, and ambled over to the Lieutenant and the child. "For the simple reason that lies have to be believable. The truth can be anything it chooses, but someone who tells a story and wants it to be accepted must make it one that people _will_ accept."

"You're not among scheming magisters here," Arathel pointed out. "Children tell tales. Very tall ones, usually."

Zalene draped an arm around Shandara's thin shoulders. "Let's not be hasty. We don't know her well enough yet to deny her the benefit of the doubt."

"I'm not trying to cast aspersions, Zee, I like the girl too. No doubt she has a good reason for what she says, but it doesn't change the fact that what she says is flatly impossible."

"Nothing's impossible," Duskwither retorted, "especially where children are concerned. I do, in fact, know a thing or two about them. This story is merely highly unlikely, which is why I like it so. Anyway, all this is easily resolved." He drew from the pocket of his robe a pale crystal orb which fit comfortably in his palm. "I have taken to carrying this around, as it seems elves in these dark times are becoming more and more…survivalist. It is often necessary to penetrate petty deceptions to get anything done." He smiled at Shandara, who eyed him coolly; as he spoke the ball began to emit a soft, silvery light. "You'll note the neutral color of the glow, as I've been talking about abstractions; lies, and the reasons people lie. The crystal is imbued with a very simple scrying spell, you see, a basic 'yes or no' algorithm. There, you see the way it turns blue? That is because I have just stated simple matters of fact. Now if I were to say, for example, that my hair is on fire or that Paelarin likes to wear lacy ladies' undergarments…" Shandara let out a squeal of laughter, and Dawnrunner could have sworn she heard a more muffled one from Areyn, buried under Paelarin's irate shout. The glow of Duskwither's orb shifted to a sullen scarlet, casting an eerie light across the rangers' faces and the stones of the old retreat. "You see? Blue for truth, red for untruth. It simply reveals the character of words spoken by the one who holds it. There, blue again."

"You want me to hold the crystal and tell you my story?" Shandara tilted her head to one side, laughter fading from her eyes. The magister nodded, still smiling warmly at her.

"I think it'll be the best way to shut these doubting nabobs up, eh? If you don't mind, that is…" The girl imperiously held our her hand, and Duskwither, with a slight chuckle, set the orb in the center of it.

Dawnrunner cleared her throat. "Now, then. You were telling us how you came to be in Quel'Thalas, separated from the rest of the elves."

"When the humans started rounding everyone up," Shandara began, a steady blue glow from the crystal illuminating her face and the camp, "I was scared. I was also small, one of the youngest there, so I managed to slip away. There was a fight, and the guards got distracted, so I made it into the woods. I didn't know what to do, then. South was more human country, and it seemed like the humans had decided to throw all elves in prison, so I couldn't go there. In the camps, people were talking about what the Scourge had done in Quel'Thalas; they came through and destroyed the Sunwell. I thought, if that was all they wanted, maybe they hadn't stayed. Maybe there were even people left alive. So I went north, toward home. It was the only thing I had left."

The five rangers and the magister stared at her, faces lengthening in awe, brightened by the magical blue glow of truth, as Shandara's story unfolded. "It took a long time to get up through Lordaeron…the Plaguelands…because I didn't take any chances. I knew as much as anyone did about the Scourge, from the camps, and I knew you could never take chances. Being careful made it slow, but it kept me safe. You can't drink the water, because that carries the plague, so I drank rain, and found dewdrops every morning. You can't eat anything infected, and almost everything was. Mostly I had mushrooms, because the Scourge doesn't usually go underground, unless something drives them. Whenever I found a cave, I slept there, and carried away all the mushrooms and lichen I could gather. The Scourge doesn't climb trees either, unless they're chasing something, so when there were no caves, I slept up in branches. Once in a while I caught a bird to eat. The bugs started to look real good, but I never ate any. There'd be no way to tell if they had plague. It got a little easier once I was back in Quel'Thalas. It's still all Scourged south of the river, but most of that country is just dead, not undead. I mean, there are undead, but not as many, and not as fierce."

"_Anar'endal dracon_," Zalene whispered, stunned. But the girl went on, the blue glow unwavering.

"I guess I was a little crazy from all that by the time I got into Eversong. When I started out, I'd planned to find my old home, and find other elves if there were any. But I came to a forest where the Scourge hadn't been and it was so…it was so… It was the first peace I'd had in so long, so I stayed. I found Sharidan there, the first thing. I was looking for meat, but when I met him, I couldn't… He was all alone, too, his family gone. We've been taking care of each other since." As though on cue, the little lynx hopped into her lap, and Shandara cuddled him close with her free arm, still cupping the blue crystal with her other hand. A throaty purr began to resonate through the camp. "I guess I was going to start looking again, after I'd rested up. But that was… I don't know. I haven't been watching the time. What time of year is it?"

"Midsummer was three days ago," Duskwither replied gravely. He reached out and took the crystal from her, its blue glow fading as it left her hand and vanished swiftly back into his pocket.

"I guess I'm twelve now, then," the girl mused. "Huh. Hey, is there any more stew?"

"Have all you want," Zalene, replied softly, dipping the bowl back into the pot. She seemed not to notice the tracks made down her cheeks by silent tears.

Lieutenant Dawnrunner, somewhat to her own surprise, had to blink her eyes a couple of times. Standing, she left the little orphan to her bowl, and found herself strolling almost involuntarily to the edge of the firelight. Two fellow shadows materialized beside her.

"Just for the sake of argument," Paelarin said, in a very subdued tone, "what are the chances that thing is broken?"

"You saw it work only moments before," the magister replied, "and besides, magical implements don't simply _break_. It takes a counterspell to disrupt them, and I can assure you that no one has been tampering with my crystal. Which means…"

"Which means," Dawnrunner said evenly, "that twelve-year-old girl over there trekked alone and unaided through the _Plaguelands._"

"You've got that look in your eye, Lieutenant," Paelarin muttered. "The band already has an apprentice, remember? A senior one, but still… Do you really think we can make a ranger out of that bedraggled little rat?"

"The _Plaguelands,_ Pael. _Alone._ Twelve! I wouldn't attempt that myself; you sure as hell couldn't have done it. At her age, I'm not at all sure Lor'Themar or Sylvanas could have. She was _born_ a ranger." Dawnrunner half-turned to gaze over her shoulder at Shandara, who was eating alone again, Zalene having moved over to tend the fire. "That's more than a calling; that girl has a destiny. With training, I think we can make of her the greatest ranger who ever _lived._"

* * *

Shan smiled into the fire, letting her half-emptied stew bowl settle into her lap, where the lynx immediately buried his red head in it. She did not turn to look at the three whispering out in the dark, but not for nothing were the ears of elves pointed.

"You hear that, Sharidan?" She squeezed him close. "We have a _destiny."_

_

* * *

_

**Darnassus**

**Four years ago**

Dyvael Shadowsong let her normally rigid posture relax into a slouch, her bowed spine resting against the back of her tall chair, and gazed at the girl before her across steepled fingers. In some part of her mind, this lapse in military rectitude was her way of signaling to the young woman that their relationship as commander and subordinate was shortly to change, though as yet the girl didn't know it. This was a part of her job that she truly hated.

Her small office, like most of the architecture of the night elves, was barely indoors. Dyvael's rank and position as head of the Sentinels' training program afforded her a rather plush space, as such things were counted in the military. The Captain herself felt no personal need for space, chairs or desk, except that her position necessitated quite a bit of tedious keeping of records, and she had learned that the broad desk could be an advantage when dressing down a subordinate. There was only one wall in the space, the outer wall of the trainees' barracks. The rest of the little room more resembled a balcony, its corner supports formed by the trunks of living trees, their branches having been coaxed to grow into buttresses and arches that held up the roof, which was pattered of wood and violet glass. Low stone railings rimmed the space between the tree trunks, more for decoration than anything, as no one who had occasion to be here was likely so foolish as to fall out. It was a substantial drop to the mossy ground below. Between the glass and the odd haze that seemed part of Darnassus itself, the air here always held a soothing, silvery-blue glow.

Across the desk, behind the chairs (for she had not been offered permission to sit), young Narsalyn Flickerwing stood at a reasonable facsimile of attention in the center of the Captain's office, fists clenched at her sides and just a hint of a sullen tilt to her chin. She wore the plain gray tunic, belted in frayed leather, and sandals that were the uniform of the Sentinel trainees. She was unusually tall for a woman, at just under seven feet, which was about average for a male of their race. Narsalyn also had the extremely pale complexion that was one of the hallmarks of the Flickerwing clan; there was broad variance in skin color among night elves, always somewhere in the range of purple, but this ancient family were known for their very light shade of lavender, which persisted throughout generations no matter with whom they interbred. Though very young, she was an adult, her face marked for over two years now. The curving blade pattern she had chosen was not a very original one, though she had had it done in an emerald green that matched her hair, currently trailing down her back in a thick regulation braid. The height and the pallor marked her out from a crowd; aside from that Narsalyn was very much just a young night elf, lean of form and angular of features, ears both longer and more backswept than those of the younger elven races across the sea. She was pretty, too, though not startlingly so. Dyvael had only marked that trait because the pretty ones tended to try to fraternize with each other in a way that was strictly prohibited until they were full Sentinels, and thus considered able to make their own decisions. It was all part of their training; life in the barracks placed specific pressures on the young women, and their commanders were always there to demand that they not respond to those pressures. Some just never took to it. Worse, some who weren't cut out for the life had to be told so, very firmly. Dyvael permitted herself a soft sigh.

"Well, Flickerwing," she mused. "I believe I made myself clear on the subject of us having to have this conversation again."

"Yes, Captain." Somewhat to Dyvael's surprise, there was not a hint of resentment or rebellion in the girl's response. If she was deciding to grow up, though…too little, too late.

"And yet, here we are. Have you anything to say on your behalf?"

"I am entirely at fault, Captain." With a visible effort, the lanky girl pulled her gaze upright to meet Dyvael's silver eyes. "I accept full responsibility for the entire event and will submit to whatever punishment you assign."

"I did not find you beating a helpless victim," Captain Shadowsong replied. "A fistfight is a two-person affair. And at the very least, you lot are learning to fight like warriors. Syluna's account of the squabble made note of the fact that there was no clawing or hair-pulling this time. I'm sure you can imagine my pride."

Narsalyn's mouth opened momentarily, then closed as she correctly decided that there was no correct response to sarcasm from a superior officer.

"Nonetheless, you're not wrong. Tishrae Firewind is many things, but she never seems to be involved in these altercations unless you're in the room. She'll answer for her part in it, but you, Flickerwing… I find that _every_ time some nonsense is going on with your squad, you're right in the middle of it, and usually at the beginning as well. Given that your squad creates more nonsense than any I've seen in the last ten years, I wonder when you find time to sleep."

The two night elves stared at each other for a space of seconds, then Narsalyn looked at the floor again. Her shoulders hunched and legs pressed together; it seemed she was trying to collapse in on herself without breaking attention. This, too was new. Dyvael was accustomed to defensiveness and sass from this particular troublemaker, and began to wonder if the girl had realized exactly why she was here. She gave herself a few long moments to eye the girl, screwing up her own courage. Never had she faltered to dole out discipline when it was needed, because she knew her charges _did_ need it, and in time would grow to appreciate her for teaching it to them. But this… What was coming was going to hurt the girl, truly hurt her. That was a thing that broke something inside the Captain, every time she had to do it, no matter that it was none of her own fault.

"The problems facing the night elves now are not of the kind we have ever suffered before," she said at last, shifting her eyes to stare out over the balcony rather than at Narsalyn. "Our military is badly reduced. Of course, you know that, better than most. But that issue is…tangential. What needs to be done now will not be done by conventional armies. I know you're aware of the world that has opened up before us. With access to countries in the eastern continents, and the High Priestess working to permanently cement our place in the Alliance, we find ourselves fighting a thousand tiny wars on as many fronts, not engaging in any one epic struggle anymore. Flickerwing, your coming is in some ways a blessing. It's your kind of thinking that will help us with tomorrow's battles. The Sentinels will always be here to do what needs to be done, but there are some problems that we are not the best solution to address."

Narsalyn looked up at her again, startled; she had not come here expecting praise, however backhanded. Dyvael refused to meet her gaze, however.

"You haven't been outside the city yet, I'll wager. Teldrassil is, in fact, settled beyond Darnassus, which is only built into the western branches. In the middle of the World Tree is a vast hollow, which the druids have cultivated with a great deal of earth and rock. There are other trees growing within it; there are rivers, and a couple of small lakes. There are villages. It is a whole little country up here in the boughs. And this is where our leadership is fostering some of the new ideas on which we'll have to depend.

"Outside the eastern gates, if you follow the road, you will pass through the town of Dolanaar. Continue east till you reach Starbreeze Village, then take the fork of the road north, and you will come to Shadowglen. There, the druids, priestesses and some others have dispatched trainers to begin coaching a new generation of elves, in new and more solitary paths. I want you to report there. Take your full kit with you, as this is a long-term assignment."

"Yes, Captain. How long before I come back to finish my training here?"

Captain Shadowsong denied herself the urge to blink, steeled herself to look directly at the young woman as she probed for the right way to say it. Before the words came, however, she saw the truth dawn, saw the sudden panic and utter desolation in her silver eyes, and felt a crack form in her own heart.

"No," Narsalyn whispered. "Please don't send me away. I can learn! I'll do better, I swear to you, you won't hear another peep out of me…"

"You're not a soldier, Narsalyn," she said sadly.

The girl emitted a short sound, like a severed groan, at her name. Officers did _not_ address trainees by their given names. Not unless those trainees were well and truly out of the Sentinels. "I'll do anything," she whispered, as the tears began to spill down her tattooed cheeks. "I have to be a Sentinel. Please, Captain… I have to."

"You're _not_ a Sentinel, Narsalyn," Dyvael said, knowing every word was true and hating the need to say them, "and you never will be." This brought out a genuine sob, a thing she had never thought to hear from this headstrong girl, and before she realized it, Dyvael found herself out from behind the desk, with an arm draped around her shaking shoulders. This was a total demolition of military protocol, but it didn't really matter anymore. "Nars," she said, almost tenderly. "I do understand. I do. I would grant your heart's desire if I could. But my responsibility is to my sisters, all of them, including those still in training. When we fight, we move and think as one, each knowing she has sisters to guard her back. It is that connectedness, that interdependence, that brings us victory…that keeps us alive. This is not something we choose, no matter how we train for it; it is something to which we are called, or not. You simply are not. And not for anything will I jeopardize my sisters by sending them into battle alongside someone who is not born to the calling as they are."

More sobs. Narsalyn swayed, as though her balance no longer served her. Dyvael knew the girl's whole world was rocking, in more than one sense. "Child, you have a brilliant mind, and more courage in your heart than many of the women I have counted myself privileged to know. I've seen that myself while you've been here, but it's well enough known. I'm well aware how you tended your family in Ashenvale during the war. But you're just not a soldier. Why do you think every night here has been such a trial for you? I know you've no history of the kind of prank-playing and misconduct you've shown here; it's a sign of your heart telling you this is not your place. It's the same message it gave you when you tried to join the priesthood." Narsalyn's whole body gave a violent twitch at the reminder of that. "You have to find your own path, Nars, and you will. And I know it'll be a great one. Elune meant you for something greater than being a Sentinel." She said this without modesty or shame. Dyvael Shadowsong was a Sentinel; it was her life and her only source of pride. But neither she nor any of her sisters were in it for their own glory, and all knew that the better they upheld their duty, the less likely they were to find individual greatness. That was their life. But this girl, this fierce, wild spirit, had a destiny.

The tears did not stop flowing. Narsalyn bit back a hiccup, and managed to croak. "Please. I have to be a Sentinel. It's all that… It's the only thing…"

Dyvael squeezed her eyes shut to block out the specter that suddenly was in the room with them. Yes, she knew this all too well; it was the very thing that made the matter so heartbreaking for her. "Nars," she whispered, "I've served and fought and lived beside her for more years than you've been alive. Your mother loves you, deeply; you are the light of her world. She _will_ remember that. Her mind needs time to heal; you can't imagine what she went through at Hyjal. Love is not something you can earn, especially not by forcing yourself onto a path that is not your own. And you don't have to earn it, anyway. Give her time."

Narsalyn could only shake her head. Her breathing was calmer now, but the tears did not slow. She just let them splash to the wooden floor, standing numbly with her former commander's arm still around her. Dyvael drew a deep sigh. There was nothing more she could do; at this point, the girl wouldn't listen. Carefully, she drew back.

"This isn't an order, Narsalyn, since I can't give them any more. I want to see you find your way, and I know a place where you're likely to. Please, go to Shadowglen. It will be a start."

She just stood there, staring at the floor. As Dyvael watched, another drop rolled from her chin, glinting in the moonlight till it struck the growing puddle below. She sighed again, turning to step through the arched doorway into the empty barracks. "_Elune adore_, little sister."

* * *

Naraene Flickerwing stood at ease in the small garden outside the barracks. It was one of the later addictions to the structure; night elves could not live without plants thriving all around them, but the Sentinels in particular turned themselves to more utilitarian pursuits first. Everything was planted, but the greenery here was mostly far from mature.

Other Sentinels took their ease, a dozen or so dotted around the space, talking quietly, sitting in meditation, or just contemplating the moonlight. The discipline of military life included understanding the need to relax from time to time; a soldier who burned herself down to nothing was useless and a danger to her sisters. None of them approached Naraene. Most had given up trying to approach her. She was content to be left alone, as content as she was with anything.

Footfalls on the mossy path outside caught her ear, footfalls in a pattern that was familiar, and welcome; turning, she beheld the approach of Dyvael Shadowsong, one of her oldest friends. They had been trainees together, had stood side-by-side for over two hundred years now, and nearly perished in each other's arms at the battle of Hyjal, just over three years ago. Naraene did not smile—she did not have it in her—but her posture and face relaxed as much as they ever did anymore.

"Sister," she said softly. "I had hoped to see you before I left. I am to transfer to the Silverwing—"

Naraene was a fighter born, and her skills honed by countless years of practice and struggle. But here, in this place, and most especially from this person, an attack was unthinkable, and she was unprepared. Dyvael backhanded her viciously across the face, sending Naraene spinning into a half-grown shrub, winded and astonished.

Exclamations of shock and consternation rose from every quarter as Sentinels leaped to their feet and then hovered, unsure what to do, but all Naraene heard was the low voice of her best friend.

"If the goddess ever blesses me with a daughter, I can only hope she grows to be half the woman the one you threw away is."

And then the familiar footsteps were striding coldly away, leaving her lying in the dirt.


	3. To a Crossroads

**Farstrider Retreat, Eversong Wood**

**Two years ago**

Paelarin took the winding exterior path at an easy lope. The architecture of the Retreat was odd by the standards of many elves; the tall structure had a roof, and even a crystalline chandelier in the main meeting space, but only such walls as were necessary to hold the thing up. Instead of stairs, the upper balconies were linked by curving ramps the swept outward from the building itself. Somehow, their band had become so comfortable in the ancient lodge that when the Blood elves' hold on Eversong had been secured, they had rebuilt and restocked it, and now the Farstrider Retreat had become an important staging point, both for the rangers and others who aided in keeping northern Quel'Thalas secure—a task that was never done, for in the wake of the Scourge's forcible removal, a tribe of Amani trolls had settled themselves in across the river to the southeast.

"Hey, little rat! I know you're up here." Pael alternated between shouting and grumbling to himself as he climbed. Supposedly, he was alone in the lodge. Some of the band were away on assignment, but Zalene and Areyn had finally given in to worry and set out to search for their missing member—whom he had just spotted trying to sneak in. "Taking this 'Farstrider' thing a bit too seriously, aren't we? You can't just wander in and out as the whim strikes you. Four days and not a word! Dragon's teeth, everyone's been worried sick! Hey, I'm talking to—"

His remonstrations came to a halt as he rounded the corner to the inside upper chamber where Shandara had her bunk. She was there, all right, the huge bulk of Sharidan sitting upright on her pillow. The girl's back was to him, giving him a view only of the red-orange hair hanging to her shoulders, and the dark green leather of her ranger's garb. What held his attention, though, was the mess strewn across the bed. Shan was the most fastidious member of the band, normally, but she seemed to have pulled out all her belongings and tossed them across the blanket. More to the point, she was busily stuffing items into a large rucksack; even at a glance, Paelarin's trained eye perceived that she was packing only the essentials for a long trip, as well as her few treasured personal items…everything she would never have to come back for.

"Are you _going_ somewhere?" he said dangerously. "Damn you, little rat, would you like to hear what everyone's been like since you vanished? You made Zalene cry; the Lieutenant is going to scalp you as it is. And now, what is this? You think you're taking a—" She half-turned to face him, and Paelarin stopped cold.

She stood in profile, the one eye he could see burning a sick, fel-green that actually cast a faint glow across the dim chamber. Sweat matted her hair, standing in droplets on her forehead; her skin was waxy, leeched of its color, and stretched far too tight across her skull. Paelarin's irritation evaporated in an instant.

"Shan? What happened? What did you—" His breath caught as the pieces snapped together in his brain. In two strides he crossed the small chamber and seized her by the shoulders, forgetting that Shandara usually didn't like to be touched. This time, she didn't even try to pull away. "_What did they do to you?"_

"I'm fine," she mumbled. He could feel her body shaking, not the tense hum of tension the quaver of someone exhausted...or starving.

"Yeah, you _look_ it! By all the gods, what _happened?_ There will be _blood_ for this! _Nobody _lays hands on a Farstrider! I'll—"

"You'll do nothing!" she retorted, some of the strength returning. "Pael, please. This is my own fault anyway; I don't want anyone else hurt because I couldn't keep my mouth shut."

"Aw, _gods."_ Impulsively, he drew her into a hug. It actively frightened him that she leaned into his shoulder instead of pushing him away. "We can't let this be, _kim'jael._ Don't you understand that? Somebody has to take a stand…"

"I took one, and look what happened," she mumbled into his shirt. Weakly, Shan pushed herself back to fix his green eyes with her own. "The rangers can't fight this, Pael. You know and I know we can't run away, but there's nothing the band can do against… It's the magisters, those warlocks among them, the whole _city._ This is Quel'Thalas now. You can't fight the combined will of the elves. They'll take you one at a time, and do…" A shudder wracked her slim frame. "Please, don't lay that on my conscience. Somebody has to survive, and prove that there's a better way to live."

"How many times did the Lieutenant tell you?" he growled. "Don't poke the dragon. But you just had to keep nosing around, asking questions and criticizing the magisters…"

She nodded, not bothering to reply, and gently extricated herself. Shandara picked up her rucksack, and Paelarin saw that it was full; she'd finished grabbing what she needed before turning to face him. "I don't think they're done with me, Pael. So I have to go. I'm not going to bring this down on our house and put all of you in danger." She looked earnestly at his face until he nodded grudging agreement. "You'll explain to the Lieutenant for me?"

Paelarin nodded again. "And the others. We may have to sit on Arathel until she promises not to start assassinating magisters, though. Hey!" He snapped his fingers, a sudden thought striking. "Before you go, there's…wait here. Ill be right back."

He dashed across two sweeping ramps to his own chamber, arriving in seconds. The small space was cluttered so that his bed was barely accessible, stacked with barrels of drying staves, bundles of arrows, the walls lined with finished bows hanging on pegs. Pael threw open a cupboard and withdrew a long, linen-wrapped package, and darted back out.

He didn't bother to return to Shan's room, knowing well that she wouldn't pick now of all times to start doing as she was told. Sure enough, he intercepted her at the southern entrance to the lodge, heading out into the forest with Sharidan in tow.

"Here," Pael said, holding out the bundle with both hands. "You'll be needing this."

Shandara raised an eyebrow at him, but took the item and carefully removed its linen covering. The cloth slipped easily away and fell to lie puddled on the ground between them, and Shan's eyes widened at what she found in her hands.

"Prince Kael'Thas's order!" she gasped. "Have you gone mad? What will you tell him about—"

"Regrettably," Paelarin said in his driest tone, "a hidden flaw in the wood caused the bow to shatter in the final stages of finishing, forcing me to begin fresh. I apologize to His Majesty for the delay, but in all crafts, these things sometimes happen. It _is_ finished, though, and after what his pet warlocks did to you Kael can go bugger himself with a razorhead shaft. The Prince doesn't need a masterwork longbow any more than you need a scepter to hang on your wall and parade with in front of courtiers, for that's all he'd do with it. And a Farstrider needs a good weapon."

The bow was stunning in its beauty as anyone could see, but to the touch of an experienced ranger, it was also a thing of lethal perfection. Slightly recurved, exquisitely balanced and three quarters of Shan's height in length, it would propel an arrow with precision over an astonishing distance. The wood had been stained a dark, blood red, its grip wrapped with lynxskin dyed the same color, and had been carved into the shape of spreading wings, the wooden feathers inset with flecks of red sandstone that adorned it like gems but would not catch the light, giving away a ranger's position. All along both arms of the bow marched elvish runes of the old style, in a dialect that few bothered to learn anymore, invoking a prayer of blessing to the spirits of nature. It was a grandmaster's weapon; not for nothing was Paelarin the most sought-after bowyer in Quel'Thalas.

"Pael," she whispered…

"Shh. Enough. Have you decided where you're going to go? Or do you need to keep it to yourself…?"

Shandara shook her head no. "They just want me gone. Once I leave Quel'Thalas, I doubt anyone will bother chasing me. I'm going to Thunder Bluff. The Tauren live very close to nature, and few elves bother to visit Mulgore. I should do quite well there."

He nodded, sighed, and repressed a sudden urge to hug her again. Shan had obviously recovered enough spirit to feel more like herself, and she really didn't like people touching her. "Take _care_ of yourself, little rat."

Turning to go, Shandara gave him a cold half-smile. "I'm a ranger. That's what I do."

Then she and the great cat were off at a lope, fleeing her homeland for the second time in her short life.

* * *

**Darnassus**

**Two years ago**

It had been called the most beautiful city in the world, and to the night elves at least, that was unarguably true. The air was always pleasantly cool in Darnassus, high atop the great tree Teldrassil; between the altitude and the tree's northerly position, it should have been far colder, but the magic of life that imbued the World Tree kept the city and its environs comfortably temperate. Night elves did use some stone in their architecture, and indeed had used it more heavily in the construction of Darnassus than they did elsewhere as a rule, but here as in general they favored wood. Some wood was harvested, but as this was done with the permission of the trees from which it came, it was a slow and not very fruitful process. And anyway, the kaldorei preferred to grow new, young trees into shapes around which could be built their domiciles. It was comforting to them to dwell in the embrace of living trees, anyway. Darnassus itself was built on a series of islands over a lake, trees rising throughout, so that water, architecture and forest melded together in a way that had never been attempted elsewhere. Though the dense foliage overhead shielded the city from much of the starlight, it was always well-lit, even to the degree that visiting humans and dwarves, with their much weaker eyes, could navigate easily at night. Lamps hung from branches, perched atop pillars and drifted in their own tiny boats across the lake's surface, carrying both natural flames and the blue wisp-lights that night elves favored. Wisps themselves, the formless nature spirits which aided and dwelt alongside the kaldorei, drifted everywhere, adding their own luminosity. Upon their first arrival in Darnassus, nearly all visitors stopped right where they stood and stared in awe.

Narsalyn truly hated the city, and not just because every time she came here she ended up standing at attention and getting chewed out by somebody.

The largest structure in the city, and the only one built entirely of stone, the Temple of the Moon had become the first formal center of Elune's worship since the destruction of Suramar ten thousand years ago. For all that time, the Sisters of Elune had practiced their arts throughout the realm of the kaldorei, going where they were needed and teaching their apprentices wherever they found themselves, as was the way of nature. But much had changed for the elves in recent times. Darnassus, in fact, was the first city as such that they had built in many centuries. There were few enough night elves left, and both the demands of organizing the remnant of their civilization and their increasing ties with the Alliance had demanded a more central leadership. Evidently, the Sisters of Elune had decided the same. Most of the temple's space consisted of its vast indoor garden, built around a moonwell and ringed by balconies, but it did possess sleeping quarters for the priestesses, as well as several other chambers for various purposes, including this open one on the upper levels of the temple, in which Narsalyn now found herself with the High Priestess.

Tyrande Whisperwind stood at the balcony rail with her back to Narsalyn, gazing out over the lights of the city. Her appearance from this angle was deceptively plain, a tall kaldorei woman in a sleeveless white robe, her cobalt hair tied back in a simple tail. But in moments, Nars knew, she would turn around and the harangue would begin. This business were she stood in silence, apparently ignoring her guest, was all a tactic to intimidate the young woman. In ten thousand years as the leader of their entire race, Tyrande had picked up quite a few such tricks. But Narsalyn had spent the last two years more than earning her place, and knew a few tricks of her own. She was in the right here; she was _not_ going to be bullied or pushed around. So she told herself, even as she felt her innards sinking slowly into her boots.

Soft footfalls on the stone floor approached, and a massive white feline appeared from behind Narsalyn, leaning comfortingly against her hip. Diana, the great frostsaber, had been her steady companion since a misadventure in Winterspring over a year ago, growing to become the closest friend the night elf had ever had. Now, she could sense her partner's inner distress, though Nars managed a mask of serenity that she had developed for situations such as these. The two of them were far more comfortable among the honest, kill-or-be-killed hazards of the wilderness than trying to navigate the political waters of Darnassus. Narsalyn felt a surge of affection and gratitude for the support, though she had to very quickly adjust to avoid being knocked over. Diana was simply the largest cat she'd ever seen; they'd met when she was only half-grown, but she had matured to be nearly the size of the huge sabers that night elves bred as mounts.

Minutes stretched on around the three of them, the only sounds being the trill of night birds and the assorted murmurs, muffled by distance, of the city below going about its business. Narsalyn began breathing slowly and deeply from the abdomen, counting each inhalation, and felt a sense of peace steal over her limbs. The simple meditation soothed her anxiety somewhat, though she still steeled her mind. She _wasn't _wrong. The High Priestess would surely understand—she had to! Narsalyn was calm, in control, and at ease…

Tyrande finally turned to face her, and Nars managed—barely—not to physically twitch.

"So," the Priestess said, "you have had a busy night." Narsalyn remained silent. "It is not so often that I hear of a physical altercation in the Cenarion Enclave involving Arch Druid Staghelm himself."

"The Arch Druid didn't actually get involved, once it went beyond shouting," Nars corrected her.

"Which frankly surprises me, given the man's known temper and the fact that you, a young nobody, called him 'squirrelly' to his face."

"It wasn't face-to-face," she said earnestly. "I didn't even know he was there, or I'd never have said—"

"I wonder, did you trouble to see who might be there?"

Nars blinked at her, uncertain what the point of the question was. An instinctive glance down at Diana yielded no answers. The High Priestess shook her head, with a soft sigh.

"Well, then. I'm to understand this whole thing began with your very loud assertion that Teldrassil should be chopped down and the wood given to orcs."

"I was mostly kidding, at the time," Narsalyn answered. "Though I don't think it's a bad idea, either." Tyrande raised one long eyebrow, but said nothing. Taking her silence as encouragement, the younger woman pressed on. "This tree isn't doing us any good; you know that as well as I. You've said it often enough. It's not blessed by the dragonflights the way Nordrassil was; we didn't regain our immortality by planting it, and the tree itself is growing corrupted, which _will_ hurt us in the long run if we stay up here. The druids say they can fix it, but I say, what's the point? It will never do what it was intended to do without the dragons' help. If we moved back into Ashenvale in force, we'd have the power to push the orcs out and preserve our forest from them. And if we offered them a huge supply of wood, they'd have no reason to chop down our trees anyway. Who knows, maybe the corruption in Teldrassil would cause them to suffer some. What is the downside to this plan?"

"The downside," Tyrande said evenly, "is that you had too much ale and loudly laid out the idea in front of several of the very druids who created Teldrassil in the first place."

"Stubborn old—"

"Be silent." Too late, Nars realized that she hadn't been speaking to a receptive audience. "I have seldom seen such a display of pure infantile stupidity. You deliberately insulted several of the most powerful members of the Cenarion Circle in their own enclave, belittled what they consider their greatest achievement, and generally spoke to people many times your own age as if you knew their business better than they. Had the Sentinels not intervened routinely, I don't believe I would have ordered them to. A thrashing at the hands of the druids might have proved very educational for you."

Narsalyn was staring at her, mouth agape. "But… But, they're _wrong!"_

Tyrande's eyes widened slightly, as though she were bemused by this idea. "And?"

The huntress felt as though she'd been struck sharply between the eyes. She opened and closed her mouth twice in quick succession, groping for words to state a thought so glaringly obvious that it should have needed none. "I can't…I don't…they… _I was right!_" she shouted finally in frustration. The Priestess only sighed, but this time Narsalyn barreled on. "I was right and _you've _said the same things in public many times! This damned tree is _hurting_ our people and—and—and, I was agreeing with you and _why_ are you yelling at _me?!"_

"Which of us is yelling?" This time, there was a note of dry humor in Tyrande's voice, and Narsalyn felt her blood beginning to boil. "Child, I'm willing to believe you were trying to help. The consensus among everyone who has attempted to train you is that your heart has always been in the right place, though you've never taken well to discipline of any kind. I had hoped you would have acquired some wisdom during the last few years, but I see that was in vain."

Nars gritted her teeth, battling against stinging eyes and a painful lump forming in her throat. She _wasn't_ a child, and was not going to burst into tears when she didn't get her way. But this was just unfair beyond all comprehension. For years she had held this woman as a hero, developed most of her own views about the current situation of the night elves from the Priestess's publicly stated opinions, and now, the first time she tried to weigh into the debate and support her cause, Tyrande herself slapped her down. The _injustice_ of it was just too much to bear.

"You don't even realize why I'm correcting you, do you?"

"Is my support just not good enough for you?" Narsalyn spat. It only angered her further when the High Priestess's expression changed to one of sad disappointment.

"Narsalyn Flickerwing, you are a brave, clever, stubborn imbecile. I can only hope you grow out of it. Yes, I have spoken out against Teldrassil, starting before it was planted, and have never wavered in my opinion that this entire venture has been a mistake. But I have also moved myself and my sisters to Darnassus, to better minister to our people when they came here in droves. This is because I realize there is so much more at stake than my victory in the argument, no matter how important the stakes. Because I would rather accept what I cannot change—for now—than cause division among our people. We are still healing from the Burning Legion's invasion. I should not have to tell you of all people how the kaldorei have suffered. This is a time for renewal, for placing aside our differences and personal agendas to work together for our greater good. This means embracing even those whose ideas offend us most. _You_, if you had your way, would drive a wedge into our entire civilization."

"I would _not,_" Narsalyn protested. "You talk like I'm trying to instigate a civil war! All I wanted was to make the druids understand that we need to move on!"

Tyrande rolled her eyes heavenward. "Child, if someone walked up to you and loudly stated that you were completely wrong in the pursuit of your life's work, what would you do? Yes, the druids are wrong. But shouting that into their faces is never going to accomplish anything. They will discover and accept it in their own time. _Then_ we will move forward together, to whatever needs to be done next. _Now_ that you've created a public scandal, which you can be sure will be heard of in every corner of our domain by this time tomorrow night, they will have no choice to be defensive, and redouble their efforts toward perfecting this World Tree. I wonder how many years you have set us back with your carrying on?"

Narsalyn stood in the middle of the chamber, dumbfounded, not even feeling Diana's comforting weight against her leg. In an instant, she saw what the Priestess meant, couldn't believe that she had manage not to see it before all this had started… And she suddenly felt very, very small.

Tyrande began to pace back and forth. "And now I must set about cleaning up your mess. It's a very fine line you've forced me to walk; I cannot retreat from my position regarding Teldrassil, and yet I must find some way to appease Staghelm and his coterie, or he will stonewall me into a stalemate that will make it impossible for either of us to accomplish anything. Yes, I fully believe that man would paralyze our entire government just to make a point. He's a lot like you, except lacking the excuse of youth. So what do you think, young Narsalyn, since you are so full of ideas? How shall I resolve this?"

Nars couldn't meet her gaze. Staring at the floor, beginning to lose her fight against the tears, she whispered, "I was only trying to help."

The Priestess came to a stop in her pacing, directly in front of the young woman. "I know," she said softly, and then in a slightly grimmer tone, "and so you shall. I can't endorse the Arch Druid's ambitions, but I can make it clear that your deplorable behavior was none of my doing, and that I will not tolerate such nonsense. To that end, I think it's best if you just leave."

Slowly, Narsalyn raised her head, eyes wide with pure disbelief. She met the Priestess's gaze, finding not one trace of pity. "You're _exiling_ me?!"

"That is not the word I would choose. We do not impose a sentence of exile except for the most severe crimes, of which youthful foolishness is not one. No, Narsalyn, consider this an opportunity for you to learn some discretion. Darnassus is not closed to you. If nothing else, it would be cruel to your sister to be cut off from you entirely. But from now on, at the very least until this fracas dies down and _you _have learned to control your own behavior, I think it's best you make your visits here infrequent, and brief. Have I made myself clear?"

Nars tried to respond, found her tongue inoperative, and manage only a fierce grimace. Her fists clenched of their own volition, and a soft warning growl sounded from Diana, picking up on her partner's fury. Tyrande stared at her, unmoved, but no longer unsympathetic.

"As laughable as you will surely find it now, I promise a night will come when you will thank me for this. Not everyone's mistakes can be handled so gently. Narsalyn, I have been observing your career for some time, and I see such vast promise in you. It will be a great night when you are able to take your place with us; I think you'll have much to offer the kaldorei, when you decide to grow up. But until then, I have no choice but to deal with you as with any uncooperative young sister of my order." She paused, studying the girl's face, and then sighed faintly. "And I do think of you, just as I think of all our people, as my family, sister."

Rage brought the words flying out before it even occurred to her to think. "Oh, that's just grand, we're _sisters _now. I feel so included, never mind being thrown out of the city. Am I invited over for dinner? Can I call you Randy?"

For the second time very recently, Narsalyn suddenly wished she had held her tongue until her brain caught up with it. Tyrande pivoted abruptly to face the balcony, hiding her face, but Nars could see the sudden fierce tension in every line of her body, to say nothing of the clenching of her hands. Tyrande Whisperwind was the chief priestess of Elune, a goddess of peace, and a great believer in that principle. But she had also led the night elves through more than one war, and was an implacable foe. When she truly lost her temper, people had been known to die.

"Leave."

Narsalyn backed up two steps, then turned and broke into a run, flinging the oaken door to the chamber wide and not quite having the nerve to slam it behind her. Outside in the hall, she slowed to a rapit trot, Diana pacing silently alongside.

Thankfully, no one was there to see her finally lose the battle she had begun in the Priestess's audience chamber. Tears began to splash down her cheeks; she choked on a sob, but managed one hoarse whisper.

"I was just trying to help."

* * *

**Scryer's Tier, Shattrath City**

**One year ago**

The banquet hall of the Scryers was something of a surprise to Shandara. Officially, they called it a mess hall, but she couldn't make the label stick in her mind; a mess was a rough place with stone walls, coarse wooden furniture and rowdy soldiers eating the meanest food sloppily from dented tin plates, mostly with their fingers.

This room, buried in the rock beneath the Scryer's Tier, was not lavish, but beautiful enough that it would not have been out of place in a magister's palace in Silvermoon. Part of one wall was open, leading to a narrow balcony that overlooked Shattrath City, and allowing the moist breeze of Terokkar Forest to air out the room. It was painted off-white, with subtle patterns of red and gold adorning the columns and baseboard, and the tables, chairs, and exotic potted plants spaced around the walls all hovered gracefully above the floor. Shandara was impressed; most of her people's hovering scenery (a silly and ubiquitous trademark of Blood elven architecture) had a certain amount of buoyancy, but the furniture in this room remained as steady as if attached to legs firmly on the floor. Every surface was artfully draped with mageweave cloths in crimson and gold.

Most interesting were the serving constructs, much smaller versions of the huge arcane patrollers that guarded the Scryer's Tier and Silvermoon itself. The not-quite-intelligent artificial beings emitted a soft magical hum as they carried delicate pottery to and from the tables; Shan could feel their aura of magic, like caressing fingers over her skin, whispering to the hunger within herself. The food they bore might not have graced table in a Silvermoon palace, but it was better than she had become used to eating.

Shandara felt very out of place.

She did own fine clothes that would suit an environment such as this, but they were safely tucked away in her bank vault down on the Terrace of Light. It had never occurred to her that she should wear anything different than her light mail armor to grab some dinner in what she had been told was a mess hall. At least her traveling kit was clean, and presently well-mended. This would have been downright embarrassing had she walked in fresh from a fight or long journey, splattered with mud and her scalemail jerkin riddled with dents and tears. Even Sharidan, who crouched at her feet, was clean. Luckily, he took care of that himself.

Shandara was comforted by the fact that no one present was any better dressed than she—at least one Blood elf was in rumpled linens that he had obviously just slept in—and her fellow diners did not seem embarrassed by their attire, though a certain tension pervaded the room. That was from another source entirely, though. The nine of them, all new inductees to the Scryers'order, did not come close to filling the space, and there was a solid row of tables dividing them into two groups. Shan and the other four members of the Horde were scattered around their side of the room, while the four soldiers of the Alliance, two night elves and a pair of humans, clustered closer…perhaps because they felt themselves outnumbered.

Shandara sat apart from the rest, close to the undeclared no-man's-land, preferring her own company as always. Sensing his mistress's discomfort, Sharidan leaned his warm bulk against her leg and began to purr very softly, a vibration that resonated through the floor. Swallowing a bite of fruit, she saw that the two night elf men had their heads leaned together, and were stealing glances at her as they talked in low voices. She frowned. The human women at the next table were either not close enough to hear or were ignoring them.

Turned away from the door as she was, Shandara was taken by surprise when she was joined at her table. Sharidan's purring had cut off abruptly, but he gave no sign of alarm, so she had expected no intrusion. There was a rustling thump of someone flopping into the seat across from her and a throaty, low-pitched feminine voice said in oddly accented Orcish, "Hello!"

She looked up, and got easily the surprise of her week.

The silver eyes of a night elf woman gazed back at her, turned up in a smile. This newcomer, whose presence brought the Alliance and Horde to equal numbers in the hall, nonetheless had seated herself on what was clearly the Horde's territory, and appeared perfectly at her ease, though everyone in the room without exception was staring at her in shock. No one appeared hostile…yet.

A second, heavier thump sounded, and a huge white cat, at least half again the size of Sharidan, appeared on the bench next to the night elf. A Winterspring frostsaber, unless Shandara missed her guess. So, she was a fellow ranger then, or whatever the kaldorei equivalent would be. The woman was also dressed in mail armor, albeit of a very different style, and a quiver and recurve longbow stuck up over her left shoulder, and had (Shan noticed with some irritation) a pair of dragonhawk plumes stuck in her hair behind one long ear. She leaned her elbows on the table, watching Shandara with a friendly smile, and continued speaking in careful but correct Orcish.

"Hi, I'm Narsalyn. Say, I wonder if you could help me out with something?"

She wasn't troubling to moderate her voice; everyone was unabashedly listening, though the four at the Alliance tables might have been too far away to hear. It was her expression that most threw Shandara's equilibrium. She had met night elves, and they, more even than any other race of the Alliance, had seemed to glare at her with loathing, as though her very existence was a blemish on the face of the world. Every Blood elf knew the shared history of their people, and understood the ancient antagonism between them; she was used to it. Never had Shandara expected a pair of those silver eyes to be looking at her with such an open, amiable expression.

"Yes?" she replied cautiously. It was all she could think of. Sharidan placed his paws on the table and growled at the frostsaber, which gave him one considering look, and then set about washing her face.

"I was hoping you could teach me some Thalassian," Narsalyn chattered on pleasantly. Shandara noted that two nearby Blood elves suddenly scowled, and one of the humans leaned back in her chair reflexively. "See, it's always bothered me a little. It _sounds_ so much like Darnassian, I feel like I should understand it, but the words are all different and not put together right. Grates on my nerves, y'know?"

_Not put together right?_ Shandara felt a rush of defensive annoyance. Her language was a younger—in her mind, evolved and matured—form of the night elves' ancestral tongue. Maybe it was Darnassian that was not quite right!

Switching from Orcish to Thalassian, she muttered, "Damn you anyway, kal'dorei snob."

Not missing a beat, Narsalyn replied in Thalassian with an unconnected string of the dozen or so foulest words Shan had ever heard, including two that she did not recognize.

Shandara's jaw dropped open, her mind too shocked to be offended. Someone in the room choked loudly on his drink; someone else dropped a plate with a crash. Nearly hysterical giggling sounded from a third party.

Narsalyn was still smiling pleasantly, as though discussing her day with friends over tea in Darnassus. "See, I always make sure I can swear a little in every language. Even Ursine and Nazja—especially Nazja. Insulting someone just ain't as satisfying if they don't know what you mean, know what I mean?" Her grin widened a little. "I caught about one word in three, there, 'damn,' and…what was that? Jerk? Punk?"

"'Snob,'" Shandara said weakly. More than one person was laughing now; the four Allies were watching wide-eyed, clearly not following. She cleared her throat, trying to regain some control of the situation. "So…you want me to teach you my language so you can swear?"

"No, no, so I can talk. I've got the swearing down, right? But that's so…bleh. I think there'd be a lot less trouble going around if we could all talk with each other. That's why I learned Orcish, and believe me, it was a _shaldoro_ finding someone to teach me." Shahnameh didn't recognize the Darnassian word, but the implication was obvious. "So I figured, here we are, all Scryers together, putting aside old rivalries and all, so I'll find some nice sin'dorei who isn't busy to teach me a bit. And then I come in and see you sitting alone, obviously not doing anything…" She smiled again, hopefully.

Shandara raised one long eyebrow. "Did you think that maybe I _want_ to sit alone and not do anything?"

"And miss this great opportunity?"

"_What_ opportunity? What's in it for me, exactly? If I wanted to be a language tutor, I'd be in Silvermoon, not the Outlands."

"Well, of course I'll teach you some Darnassian," Narsalyn replied as if this was the most obvious thing ever. "It's only fair."

"Why in the Nether would I want to know any Darnassian?" Quite suddenly, and most unsettlingly of all, Shandara found herself almost liking this night elf. The ridiculous woman, with her cheerful attitude and silly demands, was causing a smile to threaten her normally reserved expression.

"Oh, this and that, y'know. No one'll expect it, so you can trip up kaldorei who think they're being sneaky."

Now Shan was actually smiling, and it frankly annoyed her. "Again, I don't see how that'll be any use to me. You're the first night elf I've met face-to-face who wasn't trying to kill me on sight."

"Yeah, I'm a funny bunny all around. I just thought, for example, you might want to know what those two were saying they'd like to do about you a minute ago." She jerked a thumb at the two night elf men across the room, who suddenly became very busy eating.

"Bah. Threats are a universal language, I hardly need to translate."

Narsalyn shrugged. "I don't figure they were threatening…anyway, the druid was telling the warrior that you'd prob'ly break if he tried it, delicate little thing you are, and he didn't say it like it was a good thing, so…"

Amusement vanished in a white flash of anger. The eavesdroppers jumped in tandem as Shandara slammed her cup down on the table.

"_What."_

Shrugging again, Narsalyn began to rise, "Eh, never mind, I can see we don't have an arrangement anyhow, so I'll be…"

Shandara lunged across the table, grabbed her by the shoulders, and pushed her back down on the bench, ignoring the warning snarl from the frostsaber.

"Okay, first of all, we need to teach you some adverbs and adjectives. That phrase you're so proud of was rude enough, but it was also gibberish. To begin with, the indefinite article in Thalassian…"

The two elvish women, one grinning in self-satisfaction, the other glowering intently, leaned their heads together, as the rest of the room stared in consternation.


End file.
